


at the edge of camp

by Marystormshade



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Don't Starve, Drabble, Gen, Insomnia, Maxwell - Freeform, One Shot, Other, Psychological Drama, Teasing, Video Game, Wilson P. Higgsbury - Freeform, i need some sleep, i tag what i want, wow i don't even know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marystormshade/pseuds/Marystormshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson watches carefully, little does he know that he is not the only one watching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at the edge of camp

Initially, the whisper’s had been of his name. 

_Wilson_

Over and over again, piling on top of themselves, vowels twisting and hissing like hungry snakes. It must have been his imagination, he knew, there was no way this was happening.

_Wilson._

The darkness of the night became suffocating, even with fire. The sky became nothing but a vast sea that he could reach but never touch, and the air tight and gripping against his skin. Sleep escaped him like an unaffordable luxury. The shadows of the fire are distorted as they tease and lick along the lit ground. 

The tick of an invisible clock somewhere in the recess of his mind let him know just how long he still has left. He stares at the ground and squeezes his eyes shut, opens them, fixes his gaze on the fire. 

_Wilson._

The flame wavers, almost threateningly, and the shadows seem to grow.   
A wave of blood seems to go to Wilson’s head, and his stomach shrinks in on itself. 

He hasn't slept in three days, not surprising, he notes amusedly. Sleep doesn’t curl with you like a lover in a place like this, sleep is allies with the spiders and twisted tree’s, unknown and dangerous. 

_You don’t look so good._

The cold seeps, slow and tempting, from the ground up, it bites, a welcome change from the numb of the night.   
Though he could not see them, early on he began to think of the whispers as shapes, like liquid transparencies, one on top of another.

The straw bites into the palms of his hands and he ignores the low rumble of his stomach.   
He doesn't take his eyes off the edge of camp. He had a paranoiac compulsion to stay awake, not only for his safety, but also for the fear that if he were to blink, to doze, that some calamity would befall what little world he possessed, and his musing would be amiss. 

The fire is getting smaller, but there is no wood left, and the grass has all died. 

He feel's invisible eyes on his back. It is an enveloping gaze that catches even the small movement of the stubble of his chin when he scratches it gently. He cannot shake the feeling no matter how often he looks behind him, assures himself that no, no one is there. 

_Wilson!_

The whisper’s screamed, rattling around in his head. He jerks away from the fire and searches frantically for his axe. He feels blinded and confused. He knows this will not end well.   
What little control he ever thought he had is torn from him in a second as he looks up and meets the gaze of the devil himself. 

Maxwell’s face is illuminated by the vibrant orange tip of his cigar, and somehow it makes him more menacing than Wilson had ever considered. Even in the dark, he can see the swirl of the tobacco smoke. 

The demon smiles, and small (so small), teeth are glimpsed beneath the swell of thin lips and Wilson tries not to gasp. 

He ran like a madman. 

The pine’s and evergreen’s were not kind in their treatment of him as he pushed past them, cheeks splintered and eyes wild and bloodshot. His breath’s come ragged, torn, and it takes all he can give to not collapse from the exertion. 

He keeps going, until his feet hit something sticky and he trips forward, landing on his knees into the substance. His chin hits first, causing his teeth to snap down on his tongue. He takes the tang of metallic blood, a familiar sensation.   
It takes him a moment to realize that he’s landed on one of the overly large webs that are scattered about. 

The smell of tobacco has grown stronger, and Wilson looks up bleary eyed to see Maxwell watching nonchalantly from a nearby tree. Upon seeing that Wilson has noticed him, he stands and walks with a feline grace over to the fallen man. 

He puts his right foot onto Wilson’s chest and leans his weight onto him. 

Wilson splutters, blood gracing his lips, as his hands fly to the demon’s foot, desperately pushing at them. 

Maxwell leans forward even more, till his own chin rests a little less than comfortably on his bent knee. He eye’s Wilson critically, before smiling around the cigar in his lips. Wilson looks at him with pleading eyes, gasping. 

Maxwell pulls back and looks towards the (quite suddenly) approaching horizon. He does not look at Wilson as he scratches his chin. 

_You should find some food before night comes_

In an instant he is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> I really just wanted to write something for this, if only to get some juices flowing.


End file.
